Good morning. Tuesday has begun. The coffee is brewing and the warm scent is snaking through the house, filling up every corner with morning goodness. It is one of my favorite things about coffee, that aroma that just fills a space at it is roasting or brewing. So while it brews, let’s get into the morning prompt so I’ll be ready for my first cup when the coffee is ready to drink. Forward we go…
It took me a little bit to see the full picture, and clearly there will need to be some adjustments, but I like the thought of a story working with a very stratified society on the verge of social disruption. which I think this could be. It just took me a while to figure out that’s what this was supposed to be. But it is something to work with later.
Tuesday, March 22nd: It was a gross miscalculation.
It was a gross miscalculation. He checked his numbers, he double checked his numbers but the fact remained, something was missing. Instead of landing gently on the surface of the water, floating, the force of the thrusters dropped it twenty feet below the surface.
‘Not good,’ he thought. The evacuation pod was designed to float on the surface, taking those fleeing the hypothetically crashing ship to safety. Its sensors were designed to detect the surface and halt the thrust.
He looked over to his supervisors. They did not look happy. This was his project and he knew none of them were happy with that fact. He knew his placement on the team was conditional on his success rate. He was good at what he did and his successes landed him the position when most of those he worked with had been given their place in the institute through familial connections and political favors.
He knew no one in power and couldn’t even name his parents if he had to. He was no one from nowhere who happened to be smart, hardworking and good with problems. There were shakes of the heads of those in charge and they turned away.
That’s when he saw it.
The smirk on Carlson’s face.
Carlson took offense to him being here more than the others and warned that no good would come from his placement. The fact that most of the projects assigned to him were ones Carlson felt were rightfully his played into his natural distain of what he referred to as the lower orders.
He let his eyes drop from Carlson’s face to his hand. There he spotted the remote control.
“What is that you have there, Carlson.” He demanded. His voice was loud and his accent grating to those around him, but it was also something they couldn’t ignore. Carlson froze. The others turned to look at him.
“That is Dr. Carlson to you, you misbegotten whelp,” Carlson said. His fingers tightened on the remote almost as if in his anger at being addressed in public he forgot he held it. Outside the evacuation pod shuttered. There were murmurs among the supervisors.
“Dr. Carlson,” one of them said. “I think you had better bring that to me.”
Carlson turned, a sneer on his face, until he saw who spoke.
Falstaff was the senior advisor to the Emperor. He attended these demonstrations in order to keep the Emperor updated on progress, or lack thereof. Carlson turned bloodless white and opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish. Falstaff held out his hand waiting. Unable to resist the silent command Carlson stepped forward. Slowly he placed the remote control into Falstaff’s hand. Fallstaff waved him back. Carlson stumbled back, his eyes unable to leave Falstaff as the senior advisor pressed first one button and then another. Outside, lights flashed indicated sensors receiving messages. The evacuation pod shivered and shook, first rising and then sinking in depth.
“I take it those were not part of the original design?” Falstaff asked.
Ten til Midnight 